Captive (11 page)

Alex’s heart sank. Zoe was Jebal’s first wife. She was plump, dark, and sultry—and she hated Alex passionately.

Murad put his mouth against Alex’s ear. Even so, his tone was hardly audible when he spoke. “Earlier, Masa was following me.”

Alex’s pulse jumped. Masa was a huge African slave, a eunuch like Murad—but he served Zoe. “Zoe?”

“Of course. She is trying to catch you in an act of mischief or worse, Alex.”

Alex already knew that. A few moments later Zoe was gone and Alex and Murad slipped out from the shrubs. The harem gardens were beautifully landscaped with trees and flowers and shrubs, with fish pools and marble bathing tubs, bisected by numerous shell paths. The bashaw’s two wives and one
remaining single daughter had their apartments on the eastern side of the garden. Alex and Zoe had their quarters, which adjoined Jebal’s, on the western side of the gardens. The bashaw’s other two daughters and their families had apartments just behind Jebal’s.

Alex and Murad hurried through the gardens. “Why does she hate me so?” Alex asked. “I don’t love Jebal. It has to be obvious. He doesn’t take me to his bed. He is enamored of his new Italian concubine, Paulina. She should hate Paulina, not me.”

“Jebal had one wife, Zoe herself, until you. And that is why Zoe hates you so much. Alex,” Murad said gravely. “We both know he will never marry Paulina. She is a passing fancy.”

They left the harem, entering the palace. Alex pulled on her veil. Alex and Murad were silent as they approached the chamber where the four men were discussing war. Another corridor took them to a small room with peepholes set in the walls. No one saw them enter.

“I am not happy about this,” Murad remarked.

The room was not secret. Everyone knew of its existence; the women were free to come and go and use the room to watch the feasts and celebrations that took place in the bashaw’s hall. There was a similar room attached to Jebal’s hall, for the same purpose. But neither room was meant to be used to spy upon a political and private discussion held amongst the men.

Alex glued her eye to the peephole. Sure enough, the bashaw sat grimly upon his throne. Jebal and Jovar were in the midst of a heated argument, while Farouk, who was huge and fat, popped dates and nuts into his mouth.

Jovar, a tall blond Scots renegade, was red in the face. “We must send a dozen cruisers to attack the American dogs—destroy them.”

“Father,” Jebal said quickly. “Send three. In case the Americans destroy everything sent their way.”

“They are cowards, they will turn tail and flee,” Jovar scoffed. “Have they avenged the loss of the
Franklin,
or the
Sarah
before that?”

Alex turned to Murad. “He hates the Americans so much,
perhaps more than the bashaw. Why?” She spoke in a low, careful whisper.

“No one really knows,” Murad returned as carefully. “Ssh.
Es-mah-ee.”

Alex returned her attention to the men. The two men went back and forth, Jovar adamant, Jebal sulking, as the debate progressed. Finally the bashaw intervened. “Enough,” he roared. “I agree with Jebal. We shall send three ships.” His cold black glance held Jovar’s.

Jovar was flushed, furious. He stood and left the room abruptly.

Farouk finally spoke. “My lord, you have chosen wisely. To test the Americans now under new command. But perhaps I should go after Rais Jovar—and soothe his ruffled feathers?”

The bashaw nodded. “Go.”

“Father, does this mean that I will command the operation?” Jebal asked.

“You are my only heir,” the bashaw said. “You cannot go to sea with the three ships.”

Jebal’s face fell. “Father—”

“My word is law,” the bashaw said, his eyes black.

Jebal bowed. While he knelt, the bashaw swept out of the room, his many layers of silk and velvet and fur flowing about him.

Alex stared through the peephole at Jebal, feeling sorry for him. Unlike the bashaw, he was not a thief or a murderer or a bad or evil man. He was kind to Alex, and to his household and slaves. Kind, that is, for a Moslem prince who was mostly Turk. She straightened. “Let’s go.”

Murad sighed as Alex opened the door. And came face-to-face with Jovar.

She turned white, starting.

Jovar smiled at her. His eyes were an ice-cold blue, however, and they did not change. He was clad in flowing trousers and robes, wearing both a huge dagger and a large, pearl-handled pistol. His smile remained fixed in his permanently sunburned face. “I do not believe we have had the pleasure, madam.”

Alex’s mind was racing. She clutched the veil tightly, but he had already seen her face, for she had been wearing it
negligently. “I am not allowed to speak with you, sir, and you know it.”

His eyes glinted. “You must be Jebal’s American wife. The one so grief-stricken that she does not allow him into her bed. Your reputation precedes you, madam.”

Alex wanted to back up, but Murad stood behind her, crowding her. How on earth did he know such a thing?

His eyes roamed her face. Disrespectfully—Jebal would kill him if he saw. “Red-haired and green-eyed. Exotic and beautiful. Now I see for myself why Jebal is such a fool.”

Alex found her tongue while Murad lifted the veil even higher, so only her eyes remained uncovered. “He will kill you if he finds us speaking.”

Jovar threw back his head and laughed. “No, madam, he will kill you!” He continued to chuckle, and then abruptly his laughter died. “Does your oh-so-dangerous husband know that you have a fondness for political discussion?”

Alex wet her lips. “I was bored. I did not understand what you were talking about. I thought there was a feast or some such other entertainment. I had no idea it would be a silly argument among men about stupid ships.”

Jovar’s mouth quirked. “Well done—little liar.” His eyes smoldered with hatred.

Alex shrank. Murad stepped forward, gripping her wrist. “We should go, Lilli Zohara.
Now.”

Alex allowed him to propel her past Jovar, who did not move out of their path. Alex was forced to brush his body with her arms and hips. She felt ill at making such physical contact. She thought that he laughed. Alex flung a look at him over her shoulder. His eyes glinted as he stared after her very piercingly. And then she and Murad were almost running down the hall.

In her apartments, he slammed and bolted her chamber door closed. “I told you!” he shouted.

“Will Jovar tell Jebal that he found me eavesdropping?” Alex asked, very worried.

“I do not know,” Murad gritted. Then he threw his hands up in despair. “You are impossibly willful, Alex. He saw your face!”

But Alex was not listening. She could not undo what had happened, but she could try to do her duty. She had to try to
warn the American navy of Tripoli’s plans. She moved to the large wooden chest, heavily engraved and encrusted with gems, that sat at the foot of her bed.

“Allah bless her, what are you doing?” Murad cried.

Alex flung open the chest, withdrawing the white robes and headdress of a bedouin man. She did not look up as she shed her bracelets, her earrings and necklace.

“No.” Murad came forward. His silver eyes blazed. “Absolutely not.”

But Alex had already shed both sleeveless vests, and now her floor-length tunic followed. His eyes widened, but not because she stood topless before him, for he had dressed, undressed, and bathed her hundreds of times. “Alex! You are insane!”

Alex sat, taking off both silver ankle bracelets, and then she shimmied out of her pale, flowing trousers and reached for the bedouin garments.

Murad stared, then his lashes flickered down. “He shall kill us both for this.”

“I don’t think so,” Alex said, donning the disguise.

“I
know
so.”

She smiled at him as she tossed him another set of bedouin clothes. “Then we shall just have to make sure we are very,
very
careful not to be caught disguised as bedouins while outside the palace walls.”

“Moslem women are not free. They belong to their husbands. Jebal is your master, just as you are my mistress.”

Alex sighed as she and Murad hurried down one of Tripoli’s narrow, twisting streets. The odor of garbage was everywhere. “Murad, do not worry so. We are only going out for a walk, or so we shall maintain if we are discovered—which we shall not be.”

“Leaving the harem without an escort and bodyguard is a serious crime,” Murad returned, the faintest note of despair in his tone. “Your dressing as a man is far worse. Alex, you must forget your past. Forget being an American woman. It will be the death of you. Allah keeps only the faithful!” His glance shot heavenward.

“I cannot.”
“Zoe is waiting to catch you doing something grievous and punishable like this.”

Alex almost stumbled. She thought of Jovar’s hate-filled eyes. “Let her. I can defend myself against her. Rais Jovar is far more dangerous.”

“At least we are in agreement on that.”

“I am growing tired of your harping, Murad,” Alex warned as they approached Neilsen’s house. It was high afternoon, siesta time for everyone who was anyone in Tripoli. Both Alex and Murad were disguised as simple bedouins, Alex’s headdress wrapped so thoroughly around her face that only her eyes and nose were visible to any passerby. Alex was hoping that the Danish consul could get word to the American navy.

“Your eyes are too green and too long lashed,” Murad returned. “Only from a distance can you fool anyone into believing that you are a man.”

“I am willing to take that chance. We must tell Neilsen what we know. Surely there is a way for him to signal the navy.” His house was set back from the road and surrounded by palm trees and a small orange grove. It was shimmering white limestone. The Danish flag flew from a pole on the terrace.

Murad muttered something in Arabic. The only word Alex understood was Allah.

Feeling a bit sorry for him, Alex touched his arm. “At least I am not boring.”

“You could never be boring, Alex.” He smiled back grudgingly. “You will be the death of me,” he warned.

“Never,” Alex returned lightly as they walked up the stone path to the front door. She knocked briskly on the green-painted wood.

Neilsen opened it almost immediately. His eyes widened the moment he saw Alex—and then he grabbed her arm and dragged her into his house.

There was no time, it turned out, to warn the navy of Tripoli’s plans. From Neilsen’s terrace, the three of them watched as three corsair cruisers, each boasting between twenty-four and thirty-two guns, sailed out of the harbor. The corsairs fired first.

Immediately the largest frigate sent a few harmless broadsides
toward the corsairs. Alex decided that she was the USS
Boston.
The bashaw’s shore batteries opened up fire in return. But the cannons on the mole were out of range and could not possibly hope to hit any of the American ships. A few more rounds were exchanged, causing no damage to any of the parties involved, except for a single ripped mainsail on one of the corsair ships.

As the corsairs sailed back into the harbor beneath the setting sun, the American vessels slowly turned, changing direction. Alex felt curiously deflated. Neilsen sighed. “That,” he said dramatically, “changes nothing.”

Alex was about to turn when she realized that one of the corsairs was not returning to Tripoli. It was tracking the three American ships, but at a safe distance, keeping well out of cannonball range. Both Murad and Neilsen saw her at the exact same time.

“What the devil is going on?” Neilsen asked.

Alex squinted. “It’s the
Mirabouka,”
she said.

“How do you know that, Mrs. Thornton?”

“She has thirty-six guns and she was made in Boston. Remember? Jovar captured her in 1801.”

“I know all about the
Mirabouka.”
Neilsen said impatiently, “I just don’t understand how you can identify her so well, in this light, at this distance.”

Alex said, “My eyes are very good.”

Neilsen regarded her strangely. As did Murad.

But Murad already knew she had extensive knowledge about sailing and boats. Alex imagined informing both men that she was a twentieth-century naval historian and it was her business to be able to identify vessels like the
Mirabouka
and the USS
Boston.
Neither man would believe her, of course.

“We should trust Alex’s judgment,” Murad said. “So far, she has never mistaken a vessel for being anything other than what she has said it to be.”

Neilsen stared at her, puzzled.

“My father was in the navy,” Alex finally lied. The
Mirabouka
was almost out of sight. The first stars of the night were emerging overhead. As was a perfect half-moon. “I wonder what Jovar is doing.”

“Whatever he is doing,” Neilsen said, “he is up to no good.”

And Alex was suddenly swept with chills. And an accompanying premonition of disaster.

“Alex, wake up!” Murad shouted, throwing the silk bedcovers off of her.

Alex’s eyes flew open. It was very early in the morning. She saw Murad’s strained expression, his blazing eyes, and she sat bolt upright in bed. “What is it? What has happened?”

“The
Mirabouka
has returned,” Murad cried, sitting beside her. Then his gaze drifted. Suddenly he stood and tossed a tunic at her.

Alex knew her sleeping gown was transparent, but did not care. Murad had seen her naked a thousand times. She slid from the bed, gripping the tunic tighdy. “And?”

His jaw flexed. “Her rigging was blasted to pieces, her hull severely damaged. Five of the crew were killed, six seamen wounded,
including
Rais Jovar.”

Alex’s mouth dropped open.

“Rais Jovar is lucky to have escaped,” Murad continued quickly. “I heard one of his janissaries say that the privateer let the
Mirabouka
go. The bashaw is furious. Rais Jovar has been put in chains on a donkey and is being paraded through the streets even as we speak. He received fifty lashes of the bastinado.”

“Ohmygod,” Alex whispered.

“Rais Jovar has sworn revenge, Alex, on this privateer.”

She was breathless, aching. “His name? The privateer? Murad?”